


Apple-Pie Life

by nameloc_ar_115



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad Puns, Birthday Sex, Fluff and Smut, Food Kink, M/M, Oral Sex, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-06 23:25:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8773621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameloc_ar_115/pseuds/nameloc_ar_115
Summary: Dean’s birthday might not be a big deal to him, but Sam thinks it’s worth the fuss. He teases his little brother, chalks it up to sentimentality and Sam’s fondness of party planning.He’s a total hypocrite, of course.





	

                If it wasn’t for Sam, Dean doesn’t think he’d’ve celebrated a birthday for the last decade. Maybe “celebrate” is too strong a word; _acknowledge_ or _remember_ might be a better way of putting it.

                They have too much on their plates on a good day, so he’s not really hittin’ himself over the head for letting one day in January blur into the other three hundred and sixty-four.

                But Sammy always reminds him. Dean’s birthday might not be a big deal to him, but Sam thinks it’s worth the fuss. He teases his little brother, chalks it up to sentimentality and Sam’s fondness of party planning.

                He’s a total hypocrite, of course. He gets what it’s really about.

                Every May 2nd is another year Sam’s alive and with him, doing what they do best. He does his damnedest to treat the day special, give Sammy something nice if he can. Because his brother deserves it, skipping all over Creation—Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory included—to save this mound of dirt and all the little ants on it.

                Dean wakes up, the tip of his nose cold from the frosty air of the motel room. The heat’s on, but it’s not that strong, the radiator wheezing beneath the misty window. And he’s down to one layer of clothes, actually taking the time to strip to his t-shirt and underwear before dropping into bed.

                But it’s warm under the covers, and it feels so damn good. That heat. His hips lurch upwards, and he realizes it’s not the blankets giving him that good-touch feeling.

                His eyes flick open to find an enormous lump underneath the covers. Like the Rockies draped in cheap cotton.

                Sam registers his wakefulness, sucking harder, taking him to the back of his fluttering throat. Dean moans, hands searching beneath the covers until they thread through that familiar mop of hair, damp at the hairline with sweat from the sweltering warmth under the blankets.

                “Sammy,” he croaks, the inside of his mouth and throat still coated with sleep. There’s an answering hum around his cock, and he groans, arching like a damn puppet whose strings just got pulled.

                He wonders how long Sam’s been working him over, hard as he is. He’s close, in fact, and then Sammy rubs a dry, callused thumb over his hole, and he’s done. He shoots in his brother’s mouth and feels the reflexive swallows around the sensitive head of his cock.

                “Geddup here,” he grumbles, flipping the covers back off of Sam’s head and shivering from the assault of cold, morning air.

                Sam emerges from the blankets, face flushed, long limbs forming a cage as he crawls up Dean’s body. He’s naked, Dean realizes, when his brother settles hip to hip with him.

                His underwear’s still wrapped around his knees, and as if reading his mind, Sam reaches between them, canting that perky ass in the air so he can push and shove Dean’s shorts farther down his legs. He gets the message and kicks them off, and his brother instantly goes to work on his t-shirt, all his hair falling around and over his face in that way Dean loves and hates.

                “It’s cold in here, jackass,” he gripes, even as he raises his arms to make it easier for Sam. Dean drops back to the pillows, bare as a baby, and Sam falls into him, sharp hipbones colliding with his own. Sammy’s miles of heat and smooth skin, feels better than a girl even though Dean never thought that’d be the truth.

                Their morning stubble rasps while they kiss. The breath situation isn’t ideal in either case. Dean can taste the minty residue of toothpaste in Sam’s mouth, but the bitter tang of his own come far overshadows it. Sammy doesn’t seem to mind—the come or the morning breath—because he’s diving into Dean’s mouth with his tongue, slow and purposeful.

                Dean’s panting when Sam gives him a break, lips tingling. “Jesus, Sammy. What’s with the morning bed-head?”

                His brother snorts and shakes his head. Sam’s never been too impressed with puns; he’s snobby, prefers highbrow comedy. “Let’s see. End of January. Ringin’ any bells?”

                Dean _hmph_ s. “That time o’ year again?”

                Sam laughs quietly, smiles. “Yeah.” Kisses that spot below his ear. “C’mon. Shower.”

* * *

                It’s shapin’ up to be a pretty awesome birthday. Relatively speaking. They’re between cases, hustling pool or poker for gas and food money.

                They catch breakfast at a local diner, and for dinner, Sammy runs out to a fast-food joint. Dean knows it’s his birthday when his brother brings him back a bacon cheeseburger (extra onions), a six-pack of El Sol, and two containers of apple pie.

                Dean groans and leans up against his headboard, rubbing his hands together. “I love you, Sammy.”

                “I know you do.” Sam huffs with amusement and unloads all the food onto the table.

                By the time Dean finishes his burger, a large fry, and his first beer, they’re watching some movie on the ancient, bulky tube television, each on their own beds. He balls up his empty foil wrapper and grabs another beer, digging through the paper bags and straws and spare napkins on the table for some silverware. Well, plasticware.

                “Sammy, didn’t you get any spoons or forks or anything?”

                His little brother takes a swig of his own beer, face puzzled. “Not for burgers and fries.”

                “No, man, for the pie.”

                Sam’s face falls an increment. “I didn’t even think about that. Sorry, dude.”

                “It’s alright—Hey, we have chopsticks in the fridge from yesterday’s Chinese.” He grins at his brother, pretty proud of his own ingenuity.

                “Yeah, I had to clean half the lo mein off the table when you were done with them.” Sam sighs with fondness, snagging one of the pie containers before settling back onto his bed. “Come ’ere.”

                Dean raises his brows, hands hitched low on his own hips in faint defiance. In counterpoint, Sam’s brows lower, flatten, and his lips purse in annoyance.

                Now that Dean thought about it, he should've pulled the birthday card and demanded a moratorium on bitchfaces today. Oh well, Sammy’s got a pretty cute one anyway.

                “What? I’m good enough to suck your dick but not good enough to sit next to. Get your ass over here.”

                Dean mumbles under his breath to safeguard his dignity, to make it _seem_ like he’s debating about listening, but they both know he’s gonna do what Sam wants. He’s a little whipped, to be honest. Not that he’ll ever tell his baby bro that.

                They fit pretty snug on Sam’s double, pressed together shoulder to hip. He crosses his arms over his chest warily, watching Sam pop open the lid of the container. His little brother gouges out a chunk of pie with his fingers, hand hovering over the container, watching Dean expectantly.

                “Should we pretend it’s a train or an airplane?” Sammy teases with a smirk, pie filling starting to inch down his fingers.

                Dean’s eyes widen. “Oh, hell no. You try an’ handfeed me, and I’ll shove those fingers up where the sun don’t shine.”

                Sam laughs. “You did that yesterday. Wasn’t exactly a punishment.”

                The words make Dean flush hot under his collar. That sonofabitch. He’s not supposed to be the bashful one, the awkward one. Not when his sexual body count doubles—at least—his baby brother’s. He’s even taught Sam a thing or two since they started doin’ this. It’s bullshit, is what it is.

                Dean wrenches Sam’s hand to his mouth mainly because he doesn’t have a decent comeback and needs an excuse to avoid a lame one. He chews the morsel of pie, viscous filling and spiced apple flooding his mouth. He sucks Sammy’s thumb and first two fingers up to the last knuckle, bobbing a few times just to hear his brother laugh.

                Sammy doesn’t laugh. His big palm cups the crown of Dean’s head, and he scratches, fingers flexing against his skull like he wants to hold it there. The moment passes though, and Sam’s hand slides down the back of his neck, thumb stroking over the top knob of his vertebrae until he shivers.

                “Think I could cash in a request?” Dean asks after he’s swallowed, licking crust crumbs off of his lips.

                Sammy quirks his mouth into a mischievous smile. “Try your luck, birthday boy.”

                “Get on your back. Take your pants off.”

                Sam complies, rolling onto his back, unbuckling his belt with those long, dexterous fingers. Dean loves those hands, those arms, sinewy with sprawling veins that slither the whole way up to his biceps. Certain nights, when they take it real slow, he traces them with his tongue and his kisses.

                His brother shimmies his jeans and underwear off, and Dean pushes Sam’s shirt up his toned belly until it’s nestled under his armpits. He’s bare in the all the right places now: nipples tight and peaked, cock half-hard, balls heavy and ripe.

                He lays down between Sam’s spread legs and reaches past one hip, to the open container. He pushes two fingers into the pie filling, and for the first several seconds, it feels remarkably like guts he’s had to dig through on a few cases. Sammy’s always been quick; he knows what Dean’s thinking now, and he raises himself onto his elbows. Just watching.

                Dean smears his fingers along the length of Sam’s dick, giving him a half-hearted tug to see his brother squirm. He does it again and again until Sammy’s hard and lathered up, cock glistening and delicious.

                “Damn, Sammy,” he murmurs, swirling his tongue around the head, earning a hushed moan from his little brother. He sinks farther, lips gliding up and down the first half of Sam’s dick. Salty and sweet. Cinnamon and nutmeg and sweat.

                He works in steady dips of his head, in increments. See, Sammy’s a big boy, makes a space for himself inside Dean whether Dean’s body wants to give or not. Deepthroating always leaves him with that scratchy, tender feeling that makes him want to swallow repeatedly and soothe away the soreness.

                It’s always worth it, o’ course. To hear _that noise_ from his little brother, that deep, prolonged moan that says it's so devastatingly exquisite Sam can't form words.

                Dean takes Sam in as far as he’ll go and waits a few never-ending seconds for the compulsory ripple of muscles, and _there it is_. One gloriously guttural porn-star groan.

                He pulls off of Sam’s cock, gasping a few lungfuls of air while Sammy’s whispering _DeanDeanDean_ under his breath, fingertips tracing his swollen lips or slipping, sex-clumsy, into Dean’s mouth. His little brother’s always mindful of his manners, keeping his hips flat against the mattress even though his belly is taut and flexed with resistance, with the intense drive to fuck.

                Dean’s filling out in his jeans as he moves onto his knees and elbows, shouldering farther in between Sammy’s lean thighs, the whipcord muscles there dancing with movement. He lifts each leg until they’re draped over his back, so damn long that he can feel Sam’s toes curl against the top of his ass.

                He nudges each thigh further inwards until soft skin encloses both sides of his face, from jaw to temple. He rubs his rough cheeks into tender flesh, dick throbbing when his brother shudders from it. He looks up at Sammy, notices the quick, little pants raising his chest and the glint of uncertainty in his eyes, and kisses his sweet cock. “Jus’ don’t strangle me, alright?”

                “Got it,” Sam breathes, reaching down with lengthy arms and fingers to tangle Dean's hair.

                Low like his, he doesn’t need to steady Sam’s cock with his hands. Leaves them free to wander and pet along the outsides of Sam’s thighs or stretch upwards and map the crests of his bony hips.

                He catches more of that artificial-sugar taste, and the salty, natural flavor of Sam beneath it, and he hums with his mouth full, saliva gathering and running down his chin and the corners of his lips.

                Sam’s sorta wheezing like an asthmatic and cursing up a storm at this point, eyes squeezed shut—Dean’s pretty proud of that. “Oh, fuck, Dean, that’s so good. You gotta stop. Dean, you gotta—I’m—” His baby brother curves off the mattress, strong shoulders bearing the weight of his arching back while Dean pins him down by the hips.

                He swallows, breathes steady through his nose while Sammy spills down his throat, but he’s itching to inhale long and proper. When Sam’s only panting, body relaxed and puddling against the sheets, he lets his brother slip from his mouth, cock smacking wetly against one thigh.

                “Cold,” Sam mumbles.

                “Yeah, yeah. Gimme a second, boy scout.” Dean stumbles into the bathroom, the linoleum freezing under his feet. It’s not a good idea to validate too many of Sam’s complaints; he’ll start thinkin’ he’s right all the time, and then the entire fraternal hierarchy will crumble.

                He grabs a washcloth from the sink, waits two whole minutes for the water to finally steam, and darts back into the bedroom. He wipes off the bottom half of his face, spit and come and pie filling, before sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapping Sam’s dick in the warm cloth to tidy him up. He drags the rag over his brother's balls to catch any drips, swipes over his taint and hole a few times just because he wants to.

                His baby brother sighs and moans a little, stretching like a damn overgrown cat. He smiles all soft and content, and, well, that’s just unfair. “Right here, big brother.” Sam touches the dip between the halves of his rib cage. “’s where I want it.”

                Dean keeps the washcloth balled in his fist—he’ll need it in a minute. He yanks open his jeans and straddles Sam’s waist, and just the feel of his brother, solid and sharp underneath the sensitive parts of him, makes his dick a little wetter. Sammy’s huge paws slide down into his underwear and cup his ass cheeks, kneading, clenching, spreading.

                It won’t take much for him to get off. Sam’s pretty fucking sexy when he’s being a dork, let alone when he’s horny and writhing, so Dean tugs himself a few times and then creams his brother’s front neck to belly button. He cleans Sammy off with the cloth and frees him from his soiled shirt, saves the stray streak of come across Sam's chin to taste.

                Sam chuckles, trying to wriggle away from his lapping tongue. “You must have a stomach of fucking steel. All that food, and you still drink me down like a milkshake.” The restless energy in Sam’s roaming hands suggests he’s not the least bit disgusted by it. Kind o’ the opposite.

                “You know I like a tall glass o’ milk with my pie from time to time.” Dean grins wide and bright, waggles his eyebrows.

                “Dude,” Sam chides. Exhibit B; no appreciation for puns.

                “Priss,” he retorts, climbing Sam’s body to get back to his mouth. He loves the sex— _God_ , he loves it—but it’s always nice to go back to basics with Sammy.

                They make out for a while, like smitten teenagers at the drive-in, the blankets pulled back over them. He’s still lying on Sam, absorbing body heat, when he reaches for the discarded container of pie next to them and balances it across Sam’s pecs.

                “Are you serious?” Sam asks, incredulity plain in his voice. Maybe a little disapproval, too, but it's only mild at best.

                In defense, he only responds, “Dude, it’s _pie_. We don’t waste pie in this family.” He feeds a chunk into his mouth and moans.

                Sam grimaces. “Don’t spill it on me. I’m sticky enough as it is.”

                “You love when I get you all sticky.” He smirks and polishes off the rest of the pie, giving his brother a messy kiss with filling smeared across his lips.

                “Dick,” his little brother mutters, smacking his shoulder.

                Dean sniggers and licks over Sam's mouth, all protests and struggle dissolving into more kisses.

                “Hey, Sammy,” he murmurs, “I was wondering somethin’.”

                His baby brother’s rubbing his back, massaging away the knots, downright spoiling him. Magic Fingers got nothin’ on Sammy. “Yeah? What’s that?”

                Dean tilts his head to the side, looking up, so he can catch Sam's eyes. “You forget the silverware on purpose?”

                A grin spreads slow and easy across Sam’s mouth.


End file.
